What an idea!
To contemplate a new vessel.
This one is ill fitting,
full of loose stitchings,
missing buttons, and quite frankly,
I don't even recognize it anymore.
Would I turn over the coin?
Not the first time I've surprised myself
with my own daring,
it is other people, that's my problem.
Everyone knows their coin exists,
but would never dream of turning it.
Lucky them;
they seem secure.
Would I be happy?
Probably.
Can't speak for the rest of them.
My hands are a dead giveaway.
Slender; too feminine.
To fix those would be impossible.
I tire of being a flower.
It vexes me.
I wield knives, work with leather,
long to wear combat boots.
Would they finally stop asking me for sex, then?
I can picture the other side,
so well in fact,
that I shall cut my hair,
remove these unwieldy mammaries,
send that nuisance of a uterus to the gallows.
Then I speak,
hear the sound of a delicate spring bluebird,
and I can't go through with it.
A shut in.
Afraid to leave home
because everyone believes Frankenstein
finally outdid himself.
Unable to fool anyone.
To let others know is sin
as is awareness of the rolling die.
Able to close the tunnel,
but not build a bridge.
I sail on a sewing needle,
dangerously passing the tipping point.
